LA HAMACA

In Mexico babies take daytime naps wrapped up in hammocks, sleeping soundly in their little cocoon. Over half a century later those very same people grow old doing the exact same thing. You'd be hard pressed to find a home in this country that doesn't have the shadow of a half crescent moon painted somewhere across the ground. 

For whatever reason I was never a real fan of hammocks. It may have something to do with my inability to stay still for any length of time. I remember once, many years ago in Brazil, I elected to sleep on hard concrete over the comfort of a hammock because I just couldn't figure the damn thing out.

The last six months in Mexico has changed my ways. I have grown to love this simple yet wonderful invention for its comfort and practicality. A friend once told me he rolled into a town in Michocan on the coast of Mexico to be greeted by two surfers swinging back and forth in their hammocks, engrossed in a tense game of chess as the board sat between the two. 

I used to watch little Jesué snooze in the white hammock placed in the garden where I lived in Puerto Escondido. Any of the numerous family members would gently swing the hammock as they moved back and forth running errands or preparing la comida. I've observed colectivo drivers on the highway awaiting passengers chat amongst each other on the roadside as their hammocks swing together in unison. And every single time I go to the local tienda in Barra de la Cruz I can be assured of one thing — that the old man that lives next door will be there, watching the world go by from the comfort of his purple hammock. 

LA LLUVIA

Apart from the odd drizzle here and there - nothing you could really call rain - I hadn't experienced the sensations of that particular natural phenomenon for the better part of seven months; the sound of muffled raindrops on the forest floor, the chaos of water battering a tin roof or the opportunity to hang my tongue out to catch water falling from above, my face angled skyward.

And when it came again as I stood on the beach in the late afternoon, I wished it would never end. Two hours later and back at a friend's place I found myself lying on a deck chair as the deluge threw waves of rain over my body. It felt like some sort of spritual cleansing.

Here I sit, a few days later, on an old wooden chair under the shelter of a rusty tin roof above the clouds in San José del Pacifico. A small detour from the Oaxacan coast means palm trees and coconuts are replaced by pine needles, moss and lichen. And the rain, thunder and lightning.

It's been eight or nine months with the coast by my side. As much as the ocean makes up a large part of who I am and how I see myself, it does not constitute the whole. So here I sit on my wooden chair as the rain performs its intricate harmonies on the roof a metre or two above my head. What a pleasure it truly is to see the shapes raindrops draw in the rapidly forming puddles scattered across the ground. I'm left transfixed by a diverse form of moving water. I'd been watching the ocean for countless hours during my journey south. I'd forgotten how encapsulating rain could be.

I remember reading of Australian farmers as they spoke of the first rains after the crippling droughts that rippled across our country not so long ago; of toddlers crying from fear  as the heavens opened - something they'd never seen before. How must rain have felt for those families?

I imagine it must have been a salvation unlike any other. For these resilient people rain equates to life. It does for every one of us. For rain, like many other things in our world, reminds us how reliant we are on our earth for everything we have. It reminds us of the vast web of which we humans are but one single thread. If that thread is removed, the web may still function as well as before. The web lives on but that thread is gone forever.

The raindrops continue to fall, the intensity of the downpour building into crescendos before fading away again. The rhythm resembles the rising and falling of wave energy; of the continous peaks and troughs. I remain seated, captivated by the show.

I think it’s worth mentioning that this piece, once finished, was read aloud accompanied by light rain and some soulful backing guitar played by Andrew as we looked at the view before us. Sebastian then read a poem aloud, and once he’s finished editing it I’ll endeavour to put it here also. 

EL MERO MÉXICO

I grew up with a certain idea of Mexico and its people. This idea – narrow and limited in its scope – was predominantly shaped by American movies and what I’d seen on the news. Think images of men with moustaches and large sombreros walking around a desert scene dotted with cacti and tumbleweeds. It was all I had to go on. Alternative notions of what Mexico could be weren’t presented to me, so why would I think any differently?

There’s little doubt that Australia’s perception of Mexico and its people is fundamentally shaped by Mexico’s northern neighbour. The cultural exchange of ideas between the US and Australia is strong and deeply embedded – we speak the same mother tongue which obviously helps.  But if we were to base our ideas solely on what we hear on the news and what we see in films, what would it look like? On one hand Mexico is a land of cartel killings and violence, on the other it’s ritzy hotels where you sip cocktails on the beach. These contradictory yet equally prevalent representations are based on a complex relationship between the US and Mexico which draws its roots from a tense and conflicted history.

Mexico has its share of problems – politically and otherwise – but I doubt there’s a country in the world that doesn’t. I can brainstorm a dozen gargantuan problems that face my home country in Australia. Many foreigners I've met have complained at will about the state of certain things in Mexico while failing to understand the many parallels that exist in their own nation.  I will dwell briefly on one example. I often hear travellers complain of corruption in Mexico but I have to admit I feel a little differently. While corruption is prevalent, the most common form is out in the open. It can often be accompanied by a handshake and a friendly conversation. That’s not to say it’s right or fair, but there is an effort to maintain a human element to the transaction. The corruption in my country is of a different nature. It takes place behind closed doors between people who believe in power above all else and at any cost. And unfortunately we are often none the wiser. It is a system awash in money – of political donations and undue influence on lawmakers to an extent that I think we tend to forget, or at least ignore. It feels to me like politicians in Australia today have happily ignored that their job is to serve their own people instead of their own personal interests. I don’t wish to delve any more deeply into this, but instead present it as an idea of how we create ideas about foreign countries around the globe while failing to acknowledge our own flaws and examine ourselves from time to time.

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Now that I’m starting to come to terms with just how big México is geographically, I’ve also played witness to the multitude of ways in which people live their lives in this wonderful country. The friendly greetings, smiles and hoots from farmers in the distance that I’ve received while riding my bike along the coast reflect a culture of generosity, curiosity and humility. Towns are awash with colour, whether it be brightly painted buildings or the lively pink flowers of the abundant bougainvillea trees that sway in the midday breeze. Even the cemeteries, which are so often devoid of colour schemes beyond black white and grey in other places, radiate the positivity and optimism of a vast nation.

I spent six weeks in the state of Oaxaca about six years ago. For the first four weeks I was welcomed into a family home in Oaxaca city and spent time with the many personalities of a household that spanned three generations. Although my Spanish at the time was fairly clumsy I was fortunate to observe how a family lived and breathed in that house from day to day. I played witness to the open affection that was given and received by all family members. I saw a devotion to God and the church so strong that the only response I could muster was one of awe and humility. I also ate some of the best food in my life. I left Mexico knowing I’d return – hoping that when that day came I’d speak a much less clunky and awkward version of español.

I think it’s safe to say my Spanish is a little better than it was all those years ago. For me, the best thing about speaking the language here is the richness of story that I’ve had access to. A lot of people have asked me why I chose the Americas for this trip. There’s a lot of answers to that question but much of it comes back to the importance of story. I wanted to go to a place where I could dive into the ocean of story that exists and swim around at will, plucking stories from wherever I could. Considering I only speak two languages, there was no place better than the Americas. As well as a wealth of unique and distinct Indigenous langauges across the continents, Spanish and English would allow me the great fortune of hearing stories from countless people across many latitudes, landscapes and climates. There's been no shortage of story here in Mexico. These personal memoirs from the many Mexicans I have met have reminded me time and again that we are not so different – that our common ideas of love, of the importance of our Mother Earth, of family and of life and death are based more simply on being human than being Mexican, American or Australian.

THE BROWN PELICAN

My first surf on this journey took place on a beautiful beach lined with towering trees of the cool temperate rainforests for which British Colombia is renowned. There was a sense of euphoria and child-like excitement that accompanied my return to the activity I enjoy the most. As I trudged down to the tepid waters of the Juan de Fuca Strait, a group of onlookers glared at me from a distance.  “What are you doing here?” suggested their discontented stares.

The collection of spectators comprised a bunch of Brown Pelicans. Similar in size and stature to the Australian Pelican that I’m accustomed to seeing, the Brown pelican has different coloured plumage and beak colour to that of its cousin on the other side of the Pacific Ocean. The Brown Pelican hunts for food by dive bombing in an almost curious manner. To me it seems much less efficient than the aerodynamic entry of a gannet or cormorant – the large bird seems to twist its neck and beak in the opposite direction to which it is flying. It obviously works though. The move does seem a little clumsy but is often followed by an open beak quickly gulping down a decent sized fish or two.

Somewhere in Oregon I’d decided that my ‘spirit animal’ for the migration south had to be the Canada Goose. Moving in the same direction as me I’d often look up of an afternoon to see the familiar flying V zoom overhead – always moving in a southerly direction as nature and climate dictated terms. The goose was ubiquitous on my travels through Alaska, BC, Washington and Oregon and I was fond of the way they waddled around on beaches, in paddocks, and anywhere with a decent amount of open space. They chat light heartedly amongst themselves on their flying breaks as I watched on, taking a breather of my own from sitting in the saddle.

But it seems that while there was a connection to the Canada Goose, I’d been a little hasty in adopting it as my spirit animal. Since that inaugural surf on Vancouver Island I’ve managed to add over fifty more surf spots to the list. And that has meant a lot of time spent either looking at, or being immersed in, the ocean.

I remember reading something Tim Winton once said about surfing. He made the point that when you go for a surf, the time you actually spend riding waves is a pretty small percentage of the time spent in the water. Winton emphasised that much of the surfing experience lies in engaging with and observing the world around you. Of waves and their form, the landscape, the sky and all the wildlife the ocean contains and supports. On Vancouver Island I was navigating my way through clumps of leathery kelp as massive Western Hemlocks and Red Cedars swayed in the breeze behind me. Yesterday’s view was of coconut palms and tropical coloured fish that swam below my feet.  I’ve travelled through countless climates, landscapes and a few countries and the trusty Brown Pelican continues to swoop in low near the face of an unbroken wave, using its updraft to coast effortlessly along the coast – expending minute amounts of energy as it goes. It is a truly beautiful sight and one I am unlikely to grow tired of.

I’ve seen many a Brown Pelican ‘ride’ waves at sunrise, sunset and everywhere in between. They’ve cruised through the lineup on crowded days and days when I’ve been surfing alone. I’ve seen them when it’s offshore, onshore, or when there’s not a puff of wind about. I’ve seen them soar across the swell lines alone or in groups as large as twenty or thirty – each bird mimicking the movement of the bird immediately ahead of them, creating a type of caterpillar like delay in the occasional flapping of wings.  This simple gliding manoeuvre leaves me transfixed every time. I often wonder how they read the wave. Is it similar to how a surfer reads it, or is it completely different? Does it give them the same feeling of euphoria that waves gift a committed surfer? Unfortunately, I’m unaware of a Brown Pelican that speaks English (or Spanish for that matter) so these questions have been left unanswered.

With a journey of this nature, I find myself subject to constant change in a dynamic environment; a state of flux. But within this state, it’s always nice to pick out some constants. The constants help to make me feel a little more comfortable – like the way I repack my bike every morning. Every object has its place, and it’s comforting to go through that process with a sense of familiarity and routine. I guess the Brown Pelican is another constant in ever changing environments. Maybe one day I’ll get to ask one what it’s like to ride a wave with wings.

BAJA CALIFORNIA

Growing up on an island, albeit a massive one, there's a number of things that always feel a little strange. For me, one of those things is crossing land borders. As an Australian travelling in the modern age I became accustomed to departing my country to arrive on a different continent, and more than likely a completely different climate as well. It always has such a jarring effect. I still remember my first time overseas - the electronic sliding doors silently parted as the stifling heat and humidity of Ho Chi Minh City in Vietnam suddenly overwhelmed all of my senses simultaneously. The smells were more intense and it was almost as if my skin reacted to the blast of heat in an instant. Oppressive to the unprepared, the heat was a far cry from the mild temperatures of autumnal weather back home.

The last time I'd crossed a land border on this trip was up in the Yukon in July. It was also the coldest I've been in the last seven months, so I didn't really care to appreciate the fact I was crossing the border into Canada. All I wanted in that moment were three things: dry clothes; a cup of hot tea; and that the customs lady would stop grilling me about my earning capacity as I stood shivering in the mist and rain, soaked to the core, in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

Thankfully this time around it was a little warmer. As Marge & I crossed the busiest land border in the world from San Diego to Tijuana, the landscape didn't radically change. In fact, it didn't change at all. It was still just as dry and just as dusty. The surrounding mountains felt the same and the Pacific remained unchanged – still as vast as ever.

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Baja California - or Baja as it is lovingly known by many - is an extension of the California peninsula. Apart from the arbitrary presence of modern sovereign borders, Baja shares similar geology, flora, fauna, and countless other characteristics with its northern neighbour over the border. The peninsula extends about 1500km from Tijuana and Mexicali in the North to Los Cabos in the south and is divided into two states: Baja California and Baja California Sur, which are divided by the 28th parallel of latitude.

By its very nature as a peninsula, Baja is surrounded by water. On the west lies the endless expanse of the Pacific, while the Sea of Cortes to the east separates Baja from mainland Mexico. In the past the peninsula was attached to the mainland states of Sonora and Sinaloa before plate tectonics shifted it westward, allowing for the creation of a new body of water. As I have recently discovered the ocean surround Baja is absolutely teeming with life; whale sharks, humpback, grey and blue whales, dolphins, sea lions, and a vast array of seabirds flourish in the crystal blue waters. The landscapes down the peninsula and the archipelagos in the Sea of Cortes make you feel like you could be in New Mexico or Arizona. The stark contrast of desert hues to lively shades of ocean in beautiful blues and greens is a truly breathtaking sight.

I've spent the last month or so contemplating Baja California and its people and I've arrived at this conclusion. To me it feels like a Mexican-American, Californian-Mexican hybrid. Much in the way that Southern California is an entity unto itself, Baja feels different to the mainland of Mexico. Spanglish is ubiquitous, as are the Mexican versions of hamburguesas and hot dogs. The cultures of California and Baja California intertwine in a way that is at times almost impossible to separate. And I believe it points to the influence that climate and geography impact on the way in which people live, their view on the world, and their understanding and perception of time. There's still plenty of differences between the two, but the similarities point to how our micro world shapes who we are and how we exist within it.

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Riding through the desert in Baja brought with it a return to a more simplified daily routine. It was something I hadn't really experienced since leaving Alaska all those months ago. I no longer had to worry about traffic, or whether someone was going to catch me out where I'd put my tent, or where to get my next eight cups of drip coffee. Food, water and shelter. It was a welcome return to the simple things.

Reverting to this mindset brings with it a certain clarity of thought. It gives you the good fortune to allow yourself to slip away from all the noise of modern world. For me one of the greatest pleasures was to wake up of a morning, get a fire started, boil some water for a coffee and take the time to drink in the desert colours of a morning; to take those fifteen or twenty minutes and allow all my senses to observe the world waking up (as the coffee allowed me to do the very same). In observation we learn more than any other medium. Whether it be plants, birds or people or otherwise, observation allows us to engage multiple senses simultaneously to gain a greater understanding of something, or things. We may not be able to translate that understanding to words. In fact, if we can't translate it into words then it's probably much more important than anything we can read or hear about it.

As the days passed, I felt as though the desert was slowly becoming a part of me. And me, a part of the desert.  I can only imagine what people who lived here for lifetimes must feel about the place. And the silence. The silence is something I won't soon forget.

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Baja also holds legendary status among the surfing community. I could see it in the eyes of the many surfers I met as I made my way down the west coast of the States. They were always keen to tell me of their exploits on the edge of the desert. Voices changed pitch, slowing their words for extra effect. Back up north in Leo Carrillo State Park Robyn & I had met a fellow Australian also named Tom. He looked me in the eyes in the late afternoon sun, his face taut with a mixture of seriousness and elation

"There's lots of good, well-known waves down there, and they're not too crowded either.

But if you go looking, you'll find some of the best waves of your life. And there'll be no one for miles. No one."

I'd heard all the rumours and the stories. And I'd had a pretty fortuitous run down the west coast of the US, so I had every reason to be excited. After a few fun surfs in Northern Baja, Marge & I entered the desert for the next stretch of fairly uninhabited road - my surfboard in tow.

It felt almost comical riding through these landscapes with a surfboard trailing along behind. And I quickly learned that while Baja is the stuff of surfing legend, it ain't overly conducive to someone towing their surfboard on a bike. My water carrying capacity was about eleven litres at most, which would last me the best part of three days if I was lucky. Most of the roads to the coast would mean a full day detour just to get to the coast. (assuming there was no soft sand - big gamble). Once I factored in a day’s return, since I wasn’t to know if there’d be anyone down there that could spare me some supplies, I was left with a day of surfing for two days of detour. No thanks. And what if it’s flat?

The legends of empty desert waves were left unfulfilled on this trip. I was still lucky enough to score an unseasonable south swell down in San Jose del Cabo with one of my best mates, including three surfs on Xmas day. I think the solid week of surf thoroughly cleaned the endless amounts of dust out of my hair for good.

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I’ve been on mainland Mexico for about a week now. I was also lucky enough to spend six weeks in the state of Oaxaca four years ago. These two experiences have cemented the feeling that Baja California is an entity unto itself. It’s not California, but nor is it Mexico. It exists somewhere in between. It interweaves both worlds and left me trying to figure out exactly what Baja is. Maybe that’s the beauty of it?